“Terrifier 2” was one of the decade’s savageest slashers, and as fans defer willingly for “Terrifier 3” to hit theaters, the novelization of the second chapter is ready to gross out horror fans. The novel is written by Tim Waggoner, and Variety is sharing an exclusive excerpt from, arguably, the film’s most brutal scene: Art the Clown’s proextfinisheded torture of high schooler Allie, during which the homicideous prankster gets a bit…salty.
Preorder the book here and read the excerpt below.
The patio door had been shattered, and there was glass scattered on the floor. The glass had descfinishen inward, not outward. That uncomferventt someone had broken it from the outside. And that someone could be inside right now.
She heard footsteps then, turned in their straightforwardion, saw the clown walk into the kitchen, grab a glass from a cupboard, then go to the sink and pour himself a drink of water from the tap, as casupartner as if he inhabitd here. He drained the entire glass in one go, then placed it on the counter. Seemingly unconscious of Allie’s presence, he picked up a pair of objects sitting on the other side of the sink. When he turned, she saw he held a scalpel in his left hand, surgical scissors in his right. They didn’t have these tools in the hoemploy. Her gut twisted when she authenticized he’d brawt them with him. He saw her then, standing there, watching him, sattfinishd out of her mind. He grinned and toiled the scissors a couple times. Shik-shik!
“No! No!!”
She turned and ran appreciate hell.
Her first impulse was an animal one—Go to your lair and hide! So she ran for the stairs. She was almost there when Art—and it was Art, the authentic one, the homicideer, the monster from Sienna’s dream; she apshowd this now— stepped in front of her, teeth nakedd, eyes savage. He’d gone the other way out of the kitchen to try to head her off.
“No!” she shrieked.
She flew up the stairs, moving rapider than she had in her life. She heard the thump-thump-thump of Art’s huge boots on the steps behind her, felt the vibrations in her feet. When she achieveed the second floor, she dashed into her room.
Her cell phone was on her dresser, but she didn’t go for it. Art was right behind her, swiping the scalpel thraw the air, trying to cut her. She grabbed hbetter of the white bookcase hbettering various items of transport inance to her—a seashell she’d accumulateed from Myrtle Beach when she was seven; a snow globe her overweighther had gotten her for Christmas, the last one he spent with them before leaving; a pass stitch sampler Sienna had made for her that shelp, Keep Kicking Ass, Girl!; a second-place trophy from a spelling bee competition in middle school; and—most precious of all—a summarized pboilingo of Sienna, Brooke, and her splashing around in a wading pool when they’d been children. She pulled the shelves down in front of Art, hoping to trip him or at least sluggish him down for a couple of seconds. She didn’t attfinish that her treacertains tumbled to the floor when she did this. All she attfinishd about was staying ainhabit as extfinished as she could.
“No!” she screamed aobtain.
The bookcase fell, but Art saw it in time to stop so it didn’t strike him.
Allie raced to her triumphdow, uncovered it the rest of the way, and commenceed to crawl thraw, intfinishing to fling herself out into the uncover air. She hoped she wouldn’t injure herself so awentirey when she hit the lawn that she wouldn’t be able to get up and persist running. She knovel it was a crazy idea with almost no chance of success, but it was all she had.
Before she could leap to freedom, Art jumped over the shelves, grabbed the back of her sweater, and yanked her away from the triumphdow. He spun her toward the bed, shoved her face down onto the mattress, then grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her head back. With a one quick motion, Art drew the scalpel’s blade in a straight line down the left side of her face, cutting from her forehead down to her chin, slicing her eyeball aextfinished the way. Allie felt as if her face were on fire, and blood streamed from the wound, spilling down the front of her sweater. She screamed and Art held her appreciate that for a moment, as if savoring her pain and shock, before throtriumphg her to the floor.
She rolled onto her side and tryed to crawl away from Art, wanting to upgrasp the clown in sight, necessitateing to comprehend what was going to happen next. How many times had Brooke tbetter her that she thought too much? Even now, one eye razeed and bleeding appreciate a stuck pig, she couldn’t stop leanking.
She couldn’t stop screaming, either. Sound came out of her throat of its own accord, providing shrill accompaniment to Art’s attack.
When she achieveed her dresser, she pulled herself up onto her feet. But she heard the shik-shik of the surgical scissors, and she knovel Art had exalterd one firearm for another. She saw his echoion in the dresser mirror as he approached, and the transmition of maniacal glee on his face made him see more demon than man.
“No! No!”
Art grabbed the back of her hair and held her head safely in position so she was facing the mirror. She got her first outstanding see at her scalpel wound, and it didn’t seem authentic. How many times in her life had she seeed into a mirror and seeed her face? Hundreds? Thousands? And always her flesh had been fine and unlabeled—not counting the occasional zit, of course. But she didn’t recognize the face seeing back at her now. It wasn’t equitable the transport inant cut from the scalpel or all the blood smeared on her mouth and chin, either. It was the dread in her remaining eye, savage and unreasoning.
I’m an animal, she thought. Prey, ripe for killing.
As if Art could hear her thoughts, he slid the scissors into the gentle flesh of Allie’s scalp and began quickly cutting. She cried out—“Ah! Ah! Ah!”—as he toiled, blood from the novel wounds running down her face, getting into her left eye and turning the world crimson, filling her mouth with the coppery tang of her life. When Art was finished, he yanked on her hair with astonishing strength. Once, twice… and then her scalp peeled away with a illening, soaked sucking sound.
She caught a red-hazed glimpse of herself in the mirror. The top of her head was hairless, raw, and bloody.
Art threw her to the floor and employd the scissors to cut off her clothes, appreciate doctors did for solemnly injured forendureings in materializency rooms. She thought he’d cut off her bra and panties too, but it seemed the clown wasn’t interested in that charitable of attack. Instead, he took hbetter of her upper arm, pulled her to her feet, and flung her onto the bed once more.
She landed on her stomach, and before she could shift, Art placed one hand on her shoulder to hbetter her down, then began cutting a horizontal line on her back equitable below her bra strap. Her screaming was nonstop now, and the pain had achieveed a height she could never have imagined a human body contendnt of. It was amusing when you thought about it. She’d computed to be a doctor, and here she was, being mutiprocrastinateedd by surgical tools. Maximum irony. Maybe Art had even computed it that way somehow.
He stopped cutting and stabbed her in the back disjoinal times, the blows challenging, the cuts transport inant. He tugged on her flesh, pulled a naked away, tossed it to the side. Then one hand grabbed the upper part of her left arm, the other her wrist, and he pulled, fractureing the arm at the joint. He began bfinishing the forearm back and forth, back and forth, pushing it farther than it was depicted to go, pushing, pushing…
Then he pulled challenging, and the forearm broke away from her body and blood fountained from the wound. She howled with pain, and wilean herself, in a far sad place where even this amount of agony couldn’t achieve, she had a one thought.
I’m… sorry… I… commended… your… fucking… outfit…
Art threw her arm onto the floor, then rolled her onto her back, took hbetter of her right hand, and elevated her arm. He took her ring finger and pinkie in his left hand, her thumb and forefinger in his right hand—and then he pulled in opposite straightforwardions. Allie’s uninjured eye was filled with blood and tears, but her vision evidented for an instant, and she saw Art’s eyes. They were foolish, glassy, vacant, and utterly inhuman. Lizard eyes. Shark eyes…
Her arm split down the middle to the elbow, and this time the pain achieveed all the way to the transport inantest part of her mind. She was certain she was screaming, but she could no extfinisheder hear herself.
She seeed up at the ceiling and saw a decoration she’d made, someleang she would see every night before she fell asleep—a gbetteren geometric depict with the depict of a heart. There were three leangs clipped to it: the word Happy, a little heart joined to the bottom of the first P; a naked of paper with the words PRETTY IN PINK! printed on it; and lastly, a naked of three bdeficiency-and-white pboilingos— one of Allie, one of Sienna, and one of Brooke—getn in a Coney Island pboilingobooth last summer.
Love… you… guys…
Then Art swiped his scalpel back and forth apass her chest six times, each slice sfinishing lines of blood into the air. When he was finished, he jumped off the bed and jogged out of the room appreciate a carry outer who’d finished his act and was leaving the stage. Allie—her body a flaming pyre of agony—rolled off the bed and fell to the floor. She nakedly felt the impact. She began crawling, pulling herself forward as best she could with her split-down-the-middle arm and pushing herself with her feet. Every inch of her was covered with blood, and her bedclothes and carpet were drenched with the red, soaked stuff.
“No,” she breathed, so gentlely the word was nakedly audible. “No, no, no…”
She had no destination in mind, no structure. The girl who thought all the time could no extfinisheder leank, was no extfinisheder contendnt of thought. She was equitable a accumulateion of skin, nerves, and organs—much of it injured or ignoreing—a broken and malfunctioning flesh machine that shiftd for a one reason: to try to escape the pain. But that was impossible becaemploy she was the pain now. There was noleang else left.
She heard a noise then, a series of musical tones she couldn’t place at first, but which were unclpunctual recognizable. They persistd to carry out, and sound broke thraw the pain and jumpcommenceed a part of Allie’s mind. Phone. Someone calling. Sienna? Someleang stirred wilean her, a petite ignite akin to hope. If she could achieve her phone…
The device lay atop her dresser, and she sat up partway and scooted apass the carpet, moving as rapid as her injured body would apshow. Don’t hang up, don’t hang up…
Then Art came running back into the room, grinning with plrelieve, an uncover bottle of bleach in one hand, a compriseer of salt in the other.
No!
Art poured the bleach onto Allie, making certain to cover her entire body. When he was finished, he tossed aside the vacant bottle, then quite literpartner poured salt onto Allie’s wounds.
Allie understood then that she had only thought she’d teachd ultimate pain. Pain was infinite, she authenticized, and there was always a novel level to discover.
It was strange, but even though Art had been finishly quiet the entire time—she hadn’t even heard him breathe challenging—she thought now she could hear him giggle…
And giggle…
And giggle.
Then he poured salt into his hand and slapped it on the flayed portion of her back and rubbed it around challenging. Then he did the same to the top of her head, and to the extfinished vertical cut on the left of her face—the first one he’d made. Then, for outstanding meacertain, he plunged his fingers into her ruined eye, took hbetter of the flesh around the socket, and ripped the skin finishly off the side of her face.
And Allie teachd yet another novel level.
